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Real-life Stories

Accidents Happen If You're an Idiot

Scrotal splitting, accidental child-abuse and groin stings.

by VICE Staff
21 September 2012, 3:05pm

It's Friday night and time for a fight, if you're the kind of drunk idiot who finds joy in starting fights. If you're just a normal drunk idiot, then you'll probably end up hurting yourself in some way or other tonight anyway. Read these stories to give you some idea of what not to do. 

Illustrations by Sam Taylor. Follow him on Twitter @sptsam or visit his website at



One night out in Croatia, I drunkenly decided it was a great idea to have a very naked and very inebriated swim. Unfortunately – as I almost immediately discovered – stampeding around, rocking a rowing boat from side to side and shouting like the nude, British thug I was doesn't go down too well with the Croatian police. The appearance of shouty people in matching uniforms suddenly made me very aware of how naked I was and how terrifying Croatian police are, so I decided to swim quietly to a secluded part of the shore, in the hope I wouldn't be slung, naked, into a cell for the night.

As the water got to waist level and I was nearly safe and dry, I felt a weird tingle on my cock. Looking down, I discovered that it was now completely covered by a small jellyfish who had decided to hitch a free ride on my penis.

So, while I managed to succesfully avoid the police, I ended up spending the rest of the night with my cock so horrifyingly swollen that I was unable to sleep from the fear of it suddenly falling off.

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A few years ago, I was at a nappy night (an underage club filled with kids buzzing on J2Os and small amounts of alcohol) in my hometown. Nappy nights are weird – maybe because the kids aren’t used to dark rooms, or something – but everyone loses their shit. Some guy bumped into me and stood on my shoe; I called him a dickhead, as you do, and he got all up in my face.

Being drunk on tropical ambrosia (and relatively stupid), I offered him the opportunity to "take it outside", which, to my immense gratitude, he declined. I swaggered off like a real tough guy and starting retelling the story to anyone who’d listen. Ten minutes later, my friend got the shit beaten out of him in the toilets so badly that he lost an earlobe. He was so fucked up that he still has sovereign ring marks imprinted into the sides of his face. It's pretty dark, actually.

Eventually, they came for me. I got punched five times in the face and fell to the floor, out cold. I was hit so hard that my nose broke in three places and part of my nostril was ripped off. Turns out the guy who punched me was a youth-champion gypsy-boxing legend. In hindsight, he was probably the wrong guy to pick on.

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Years ago, I was on holiday with my family. My parents love to sunbathe and do old people stuff, but I was a little kid, so I obviously wanted to go do fun shit, rather than sit and blister in the sun all day. One morning, I somehow bribed my dad away from the beach to go and play crazy golf with me. Looking back, I reckon it was just because he could take his top off and sneak in more tanning, while keeping me from whining at him the whole time.

Anyway, we’re about four rounds in and it’s my dad’s turn. He swings back with the full force of a 17-stone adult man and – CRACK! – smashes me, a nine-year-old child, square in the face. My face bursts open and sprays blood all over the course, while my dad just stands there, white as fucking flour, wondering if he’s killed his first-born.

My mum freaked out at him for hours, obviously, but everything calmed down once I was all stitched up. My scar has kind of faded over the years, but it still looks pretty badass. Cheers, Dad! Kind of.

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I was on holiday in Newquay a few years ago with my brother and some friends, sat on the beach, drinking a bottle of mixed spirits that we'd stolen from our parents' liquour cabinet and ingesting handfuls of the herbal pills and legal powder that we'd bought from one of the head shops in town.  

After a couple of hours, it seemed like the best idea in the world to climb on top of one of the double-storey beach huts and look out over the night sea. Once we'd all clambered up, my friend, Ed, started trying to light a cigarette, but the wind kept blowing his lighter out. Frustrated, drunk and confused, he kept taking small steps backwards towards the edge of the roof. Suddenly, he disappeared. It took us a good 30 seconds in our smogged-out haze to realise that he'd fallen off the edge and landed face-down in the sand below.

We ran down to find a face like we'd never seen before: a mangled mess of congealed blood and cartilage, peppered with gravel and sand, with one eye and a bit of a mouth poking through the carnage. Hilariously, he started claiming that he didn't need an ambulance, but I've never seen someone alive who needed an ambulance as much as he did right then. I sat with him all the way to the hospital and heard that, if he'd landed on the back of his head, he would have been a goner. I guess that should have bummed me out, but the herbal pills were kicking in, so I quite happily spent the next five hours sat in the waiting room, covered in Ed's blood, talking to a Cornish Mormon guy about polygamy and trying to flirt with a 45-year-old woman. When we were finally allowed to visit Ed, we were met by someone who looked kinda like Kim Jong-Il in Team America, all puffy and and contorted; probably owing to the new addition of six metal plates in his face and a bunch of screws to hold everything together. 

It sucked and everyone got really scared and worried for a while, but he's absolutely fine now. Plus – and I don't want to glamourise falling off buildings in any way – but he can stick magnets to his face, which is pretty fucking cool.

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Back before my balls had dropped and I was still pretending to have pubes, my friends and I were all really into Jackass, so we'd spend most our free time doing stupid but ultimately tame shit, like getting into wheelie-bins and pushing each other off the top of mini-ramps. We were all hanging around outside school one day, waiting for our parents to pick us up, and my friend had his video camera with him. That, and the fact that there were girls watching, presented the perfect opportunity to do something cool and impress everyone around me. Due to my complete lack of knowledge about anything cool, I decided to jump into a bush, somehow thinking that was on a par with the kind of stuff I'd seen on TV.

I started my run, like a high-jumper approaching his target, launched myself off and landed on top of the bush. I felt like a king amongst men. That's until a cold, excruciating pain started to emanate from my groin. I involuntarily let out the most ridiculously high-pitched scream and all the girls started laughing at me. Crouching behind the other side of the bush, I tenderly examined my crotch, to find out a rogue branch had penetrated both my flimsy school trousers and my ball-sack. Luckily, it was superficial – no balls were harmed in the making of that stunt – but there was a scary amount of blood and it's all on camera. Please heed this advice: never jump into a bush to impress girls, it won't work.

Illustrations by Sam Taylor. Follow him on Twitter  or visit his website at .

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